


By Daylight and In Dream

by takadainmate



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-08-27
Updated: 2010-08-27
Packaged: 2020-12-17 15:00:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 16,813
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21056321
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/takadainmate/pseuds/takadainmate
Summary: Pre-Dean/Cas, Sam.There were times when Castiel watched Dean's dreams.Set during Cas's search for God.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Usual and most beloved thanks to [](https://cienna.livejournal.com/profile)[**cienna**](https://cienna.livejournal.com/) for the beta, google!fu and general coercion.

Dean had always been a physical creature. This, Castiel understood.

Dean would rest his hand on Castiel's shoulder and sometimes press a hand against his chest to keep him back or to draw him away from something. When he was angry or displeased, Dean would hold Castiel's arms in a grip that would have been painful to a human. At times when Castiel least expected it, Dean would tap his fingers against the back of Castiel's hand to gain his attention, or pat his back gently so that Castiel could feel cotton and the impression of a hand on his borrowed skin.

Sam never said anything, or even blinked, when Dean did any of these things, so Castiel concluded it must be normal human behaviour. Or at least, normal _Dean_ behaviour. Even if Dean didn’t touch his brother, or Bobby, or anyone else he had ever met with the same frequency.

Sometimes, Castiel watched Dean's dreams. He told himself he was guarding against outside influence; keeping Dean safe from Zachariah, from Michael, and from Lucifer. He told himself he was preventing the discovery of their location, or their information, or their strategy. But often Castiel found himself staying the whole night through, marvelling at the unconscious minds of humans.

Of Dean.

There was safety there too, in the known and familiar soul of Dean Winchester. Somewhere to hide from his brothers, somewhere he could rest without the constant fear of discovery. Castiel realised he felt welcomed there, but that feeling would pass quickly, leaving Castiel uncomfortable because he didn't know if he really _was_. He had never asked Dean, and he knew how much Dean valued the privacy of his mind. Knowing this made Castiel feel worse, and he thought it was shame.

He should tell Dean, ask for permission, but Castiel was afraid that Dean would say no. If he did then Castiel would never be able to return. Never again be able to see the shifting stories and landscapes and colours of Dean’s dreams. So he held his silence, and hid in the far corners of Dean's dreams, and told himself that it was all to protect Dean, ignoring the part of him that called it selfishness.

Dean was loud, even in his own head, and Castiel could avoid very little of Dean's imagination.

In his dreams, Dean was a demon and an angel and a child and an old man, and sometimes a woman and a father and a truck driver and a dinosaur. Castiel liked the dinosaur dream very much.

And sometimes, Dean would make love in his dreams, even as he no longer did in the waking world. Castiel knew that Sam worried about this, as though something which had for a long time been a defining part of his brother was changed. Unfamiliar.

Sam told Castiel, exasperated, "Dean used to love sex," and he admitted, "I don't know what to do."

He didn't ask Castiel for help, for which Castiel was thankful. Castiel understood so very little about this aspect of humanity that he was sure he could be of very little assistance in this matter. But Sam seemed relieved just to have spoken his frustration out loud so Castiel nodded and said, "Dean is strong, and he is still Dean. He will be fine." Castiel was confident that this was the truth.

Sam didn't look entirely convinced, but his agitation was eased and he muttered an agreement.

And Castiel watched Dean in his dreams.

Sometimes it was a woman, and sometimes it was a man, and once there had been Alistair in the fires of Hell and Dean's eyes had been full of fear, so Castiel had put a stop to that dream and given Dean a candy shop from a childhood memory instead.

Castiel learned many things.

He learned that Dean liked to be touched everywhere, but especially along the back of his shoulders and down his sides. Dean was ticklish on the soles of his feet.

Dean liked to look into the faces of those he made love to as he came to orgasm, but he did not like to be on his knees.

Once, Dean and a lithe blond woman he had seen at a diner earlier that day made love against the diner's counter while plates and cups rattled on its surface. It was bright, daytime, and Castiel was glad Dean had not imagined any other customers.

Twice, Dean made love to Anna on the backseat of the Impala, and Castiel found that he had to look away. It was a relief when Castiel returned the next night to find Dean dreaming of him, instead. They were standing by the lake Castiel had once crafted for Dean, the air fresh and warm, and Dean was looking at the Castiel in Dean's dream, and the Castiel in Dean's dream was looking at Dean. There was no wind, and no sound, and the colours were bright and alive.

They stood like that for a long time until Dean asked, "Are you really here?"

The Castiel in Dean's dream replied, "No."

And Dean said, "Oh," and the air became a little cooler.

Castiel thought and thought about the dream-him, and about the growing unease he felt about hiding in Dean's mind until it distracted him so much that Sam noticed something was wrong.

Frowning over the pile of books they had been working through all afternoon, Sam asked, "What's wrong, Cas?"

Castiel's first instinct was to dismiss the matter as nothing, as trivial, but Sam knew Dean better than anyone and this was perhaps an opportunity that Castiel should not miss.

"What do you imagine," Castiel began, choosing his words carefully, "Dean would think of my presence in his dreams?"

Sam looked confused. "You, like, this you in his dreams? Not a dream you? Like you did before?"

"Yes," Castiel affirmed.

"Why would you want to?" Sam asked, then suddenly his expression turned nervous and anxious. "Is Dean dreaming of Hell again? Is something wrong?"

Castiel shook his head. "No, Sam. No, Dean is well. I was curious what he thought of my presence there." It was almost a lie. Almost.

Sam studied Castiel for a long moment, as though he knew there was more to this than Castiel was saying. "You know how Dean is about, y'know, people looking in his head." He gives Castiel a dubious look. "But, maybe if there's a good reason and… it's someone he knows," Sam shrugged. "Maybe he could live with it."

Sam laid his hand lightly on Castiel's arm and Castiel wondered why it felt different -less intimate- than when Dean did the same thing.

"Cas," Sam said seriously, and he had his full attention on Castiel as though he was searching his face for something. "What's this about? Has something happened?"

"No," Castiel assured him. "No, it’s nothing."

He felt he had his answer.

Castiel pulled away from Sam, turning back to the books and trying to concentrate on the lines of Latin in front of him. He could sense Sam watching him for some long minutes, but he said nothing, and soon enough he returned to his own study.

Castiel did not watch Dean's dreams.

Over the long days that had once seemed so short and fleeting, Castiel grew tired.

More than ever it seemed as though everyday brought more of his brothers at his heels, and everyday he ran faster and further and could go to Sam and Dean less and less for fear of revealing them to the host.

Dean called after a week demanding to know _where the fuck_ Castiel was and _what the hell_ he was doing that he couldn't respond to Sam's three million texts and didn't Castiel know that Sam was _shitting kittens_ worrying that his _feathery ass_ had been captured or skewered. Dean called Castiel a bastard and sort of a friend and shouted at him for a long time before allowing Castiel to speak.

"The other angels are close," Castiel tried to explain. "I will not bring them to you."

"There's gotta be a way we can hide you too," Dean insisted. Castiel paused, unsure what he should say. There was a way, but he was still unsure if he should ask it of Dean.

Dean seemed to take the pause as affirmation because he said, "There is."

"Perhaps," Castiel replied, noncommittally. "I must go," he added before hanging up.

The next time he called, Dean yelled at Castiel for even longer and called him even more unkind names. Castiel was so exhausted and so _alone_ he enjoyed every word of it and smiled when Dean said, "Cas, you better be fucking listening to me," and "I'll find a way to summon your angelic ass if I have to," and finally, "Are you okay?"

"I am well," Castiel lied. Actually lied.

"Yeah, right," Dean snorted. "You sound it. Just… come on, man. We'll think of something. Sam said you asked about dreams."

Castiel shouldn’t have been surprised. Sam was perceptive and clever, and Sam had sworn there would be no more secrets between himself and his brother. But it was the concern, and the insistence in Dean's voice that made Castiel wonder when the Winchesters had started _caring_ what happened to Castiel.

It made him less weary, lighter somehow. It made him long to be with the Winchesters.

"You would not like it," Castiel told Dean.

"What? You hanging out in my dreams? I can think of a lot of things I don't like more than that, Cas."

Castiel shook his head, forgetting that Dean couldn't see him. He really didn't like speaking on the telephone.

"Even so."

"Seriously, Cas," Dean said. "How bad can it be?” He laughed. “So Sam was right? You actually can hide out in my dreams or something?"

"Yes." Castiel itched to move on, acutely aware of how long he’d been in one place and how easy he would be found like this.

On the other end of the phone line, Dean laughed again. "Okay, I was joking, but whatever."

"You know I can see your dreams, Dean."

"Yeah," Dean agreed. "It's nothing you haven't done before."

"You don't understand," Castiel pressed. "I have watched your dreams before, many times, and I did not ask. It is difficult to-"

"You never gave a crap before," Dean cut in.

Castiel knew that this was true, but things had changed. That was before Castiel had spent so much time among humans. With Dean and Sam. Before he’d known what it was like to listen to Dean's long complaints about intrusive bastard angels and privacy and Castiel being _creepy_.

"I didn't know any better." Castiel still didn't really understand, but it seemed important to Dean, so Castiel accepted the idea of privacy as a facet of humanity he had yet to learn.

Dean was silent for a long moment. Castiel knew he had remained in one place for too long when he felt faint shifts in the air around him, signalling the approach of one of his brothers.

"I must go, Dean," Castiel said, even though he found himself loathe to sever the connection. Dean and Sam were, after all, the only beings Castiel spoke to with any frequency and the silence and isolation Castiel now found himself in he was not used to at all.

On the other end of the line Dean said, "Right," then after a pause, "I don't mind. Much. If it'll keep you alive I'd have to be an asshole not to let you, you know, hang out in my brain or whatever. Just… remember that I don't actually get a lot of choice about what goes on up there."

"I have never seen anything which makes me think any less of you, Dean," Castiel assured him. The human subconscious was a strange place, but Castiel had seen Dean in Hell and not been horrified at what he had found there. It was unlikely anything Dean could create in his imagination would be worse than what Castiel had seen in his long life. Than what Castiel had seen in Hell. And in Heaven.

"Err." Dean sounded confused, perhaps embarrassed. "Okay. Great. Don't get slaughtered out there."

"I will do my best," and Castiel hung up.

He flew.

He didn't go to Dean that day, or the next, and Castiel hadn't planned to go to him the day after that either, but then Sam sent a text message which read, _"Get here now or Dean is going to cry."_

Castiel was fairly sure Dean would not actually cry, but the sentiment was understood.

That night, Castiel took himself to Dean and slipped easily, familiarly, into his dreams.

In his dreams Dean was sleeping, and Castiel watched and did not think and rested sitting in an old, tatty chair in a motel in Dean's mind.

Again, the next day, Castiel received a message from Sam.

_"Dean cried. You should've seen it."_

Castiel laughed and wrote back, _"I doubt he did. I visited."_

That evening Dean sent the message, _"Sneaky. Didn't notice at all."_

_"You were asleep,"_ Castiel replied sensibly.

The night after that Dean dreamed of three tall, crystal glasses filled with what looked like water. He watched as Dean took a slow, careful sip from each.

_"You were there last night, right?"_ Dean texted the following morning, and Castiel replied, _"Yes."_

The next night Dean dreamed he was running and running through a cold, damp forest. The sun was so bright it was blinding, and there was a silence so complete that Castiel could not even hear the sound of Dean's footfalls or his breathing as he raced over decaying, fallen trees and vivid, green undergrowth.

As Castiel moved on, and on again, crossing the Earth's surface and back again in the days that followed he would often find himself thinking about the dream, and how so deeply it resembled what Castiel's life had become.

Dean texted, _"Are you ever going to come and see us when I'm awake?"_

Castiel replied quickly, _"Not for the time being,"_. His brothers were so close that Castiel could feel their grace and their love.

It was three days and three nights before Castiel felt he could safely rest with Dean again, and that night Dean was waiting for him.

There was the lake again, and the pier.  
  
The sky was a deep metallic grey and the colours of the lake and the trees looked dimmed and washed-out. Dean wasn’t fishing, but standing with his shoulders hunched and his hands stuffed deep into the pockets of his jeans like he was cold. He was staring out at the water.

He must have heard Castiel's approach because he said, head still bowed, "I never know if it's really you or not."

"Does it matter?" Castiel asked in reply, coming to stand beside Dean. He watched the grey clouds as they moved, slowly, across the sky.

"Yeah," Dean snorted. He sounded amused to Castiel. "I need to know if I should be embarrassed when I wake up."

"I told you, Dean. I have never-"

"I know, Cas," Dean interrupted. "You don't care what I dream. I'd still kind of like to know what you see."

Castiel wasn't sure how to reply to that, knowing that Dean only remembered a fraction of what went on in his head as he slept. Thinking it was something safe, something obvious, he told Dean, "You have sex very often."

Dean laughed openly at the comment, loud and sincere. "You saw that, huh?" Dean smiled, turning his head to look at Castiel.

"It was difficult to miss."

Dean smiled even more widely, before saying, "At least dream-me is getting laid."

Castiel really had nothing to say to that, so he just watched as Dean's expression turned more thoughtful, but there was still amusement in his eyes. "You should try it sometime."

"I don't sleep."

And then Dean grinned in a way which Castiel thought looked _devious_. "I wasn't talking about dreaming."

Dean's words and his smile stayed with Castiel as he crossed the Atlantic. It was just how Dean was with everyone, he told himself. There was so much affection in Dean and even if Castiel could no longer sense it so easily, he could see it in the way he teased his brother and the way he listened to Bobby and the way he harassed Castiel with pointless text messages.

When Castiel returned to Dean, nights later, he was dreaming of Hell. With his strength so faded, it was difficult to reshape Dean's dreams, but Castiel could not leave Dean to the torture of his own memories, so he took the red blood and the flames and mixed it with the yellow of sulphur to form an orange sky, as deep and clear as sunset. He took the black of demon eyes and the metal of knives and chains and made a bench and a playground. The pale blue of torn jackets and jeans mixed with the yellow hues of rock to make a carpet of green grass. It was the best Castiel could do. He put Dean on the bench beside him and then sat and rested, waiting for Dean to return to being Dean again.

Castiel created a soft, cool breeze, and the sounds of birds and distant cars, and listened as Dean breathed until finally, he opened his eyes. They were green again.

"I take it this is you," he said, voice quiet and hoarse.

"Yes," Castiel replied.

After another long moment Dean slumped back against the bench, tipping his head to look up at Castiel's rust-coloured sky, relaxing into himself and into the changed environment, letting Hell fall away. He said, "Thanks."

Castiel visited again the next night, afraid that Dean would again dream of Hell, but he found Dean driving his car along an empty road. On either side of the car, fields and fields passed in an obscured blur. It was perhaps mid-afternoon, Castiel felt the weight of his coat and the closeness of his shirt against his skin. It was a strange sensation that Castiel recognised as the heat. He wondered at how his mind knew to create this illusion within himself.

Castiel sat in the passenger’s seat, listening to the leather creak as he shifted in discomfort, fascinated by the sound.

"You could take the coat off," Dean suggested. He seemed at peace, and Castiel was glad for it.

"I could," Castiel agreed, but he wanted to feel the way the heat made him sweat, and how it ran down his back and the backs of his knees, tickling his skin.

It was quiet, Castiel noticed with a start.

"You have no music on?"

Dean looked down at the radio thoughtfully, then turned his gaze back to the road, shrugging.

"You should come see us," Dean said. "When we're awake. Sam's starting to think you don't like him."

Castiel shook his head. His face felt warm, prickling, particularly the skin over his cheeks. "That's not it, Dean-"

"I know, I know, Cas. Angels on your tail." Dean glanced at Castiel for a moment before looking back to the empty sky and the empty highway and the empty, formless world around them. "You should check in with us sometime anyway. So I know for sure I'm not just dreaming you're here. So I _remember_ dreaming you're here."

Castiel could have argued, that he had about as much control as Dean did, now, over what he remembered. But Dean seemed relaxed, almost content, and the atmosphere was welcoming and comfortable and Castiel had not felt any of those things in what seemed like a very long time.

Instead, he told Dean, "I like this dream," and watched as Dean smiled and drove.

It was selfish and it was ill conceived, but Castiel remained with Dean all night, and was still there when Dean woke up in the morning.

Dean raised a hand in greeting. "Hey Cas. Couldn't stay away, huh?"

"You asked me to visit," Castiel pointed out. Sam stirred in the bed beside Dean's, sitting up on his elbows and turning to face them, mussed and buried in sheets and still half-asleep."

"Did you say Cas?" he asked. "Cas is here?"

"I am, Sam," Castiel said. Dean was pushing back the covers, swinging his legs off the side of the bed and onto the floor.

"'Morning Cas." Sam looked at the watch on his wrist before flopping back down onto his bed. "You couldn't have come by at a reasonable hour?"

"That is Dean's doing," Castiel explained. "He woke up."

Dean scoffed, pushing himself to his feet. "That's right. Blame me." He pulled off his t-shirt and threw it into Sam's face, in response to which Sam flailed and sputtered and cursed Dean in some very creative ways.

Castiel wondered at how different the physical presence of Dean, how the bone and muscle of his body moved and shifted so differently in the waking world than in Dean's dreams, as though Dean saw himself as somehow less. Somehow older and more weary.

Dean clapped a hand on Castiel's shoulder as he walked past. "I'm showering. You," he pointed at Cas with a finger inches from his nose. "Stay put."

Castiel should have argued that he had no choice, that it was dangerous to remain, but Dean added, "And don't even think about arguing with me," before letting go of Castiel and making his way to the bathroom.

Castiel knew he didn’t have to follow orders anymore, even Dean's, but still Castiel found himself _wanting_ to. So he stayed for breakfast, and Dean and Sam arguing over things that Castiel neither understood nor cared to. He stayed with them in the Impala for some time, as they drove along roads that were neither empty nor straight. There was sound; Dean's music and Sam talking and asking questions, and it wasn't hot in the car so much as it was mildly warm. Castiel concentrated on the feeling, wondering if he could get used to the discomfort and the strange lethargy the heat brought with it. Wondering if one day he would have to. The backseat of the car creaked like the front, Castiel found, and he moved sometimes just to hear it.

At the first sign of his brothers' proximity he left, and Dean texted him shortly afterwards with, _"You could at least say goodbye."_

The next dream Castiel saw was bizarre in the extreme, even for Dean. It was all colour and movement and Castiel found himself imagined as a yellow blob on a background of grey. He moved across the surface of the dream and could not find Dean anywhere. Castiel understood, to a certain extent, the idea of abstraction. He was himself, in essence, an abstract creature. But the dream of muted colours was unsettling in its incoherency and its bleakness.

After that, there was a childhood memory of watching television with Sam, and a dream of a feast of sumptuously arranged food that sat rotting on silver and gold dishes as Dean watched.

One night, Castiel was resting in a comfortable armchair he’d found in a dream of a large department store when Dean came walking past, completely naked. He stopped in front of Castiel and sighed heavily, wrapping his arms around his chest.

"I don't normally have dreams like this," he said.

"I... didn't think you did," Castiel replied uncertainly.

Indistinguishable characters stood around, pointing at Dean and laughing, and Dean turned his head towards them, away from Castiel, frowning and looking miserable. "They're pretty common. Naked dreams. I forgot to put clothes on this morning."

Castiel had no knowledge about the frequency of types of human dreams, but he nodded in agreement anyway. Dean shivered, prompting Castiel to stand up and begin stripping off his coat.

At the movement, Dean’s head snapped back towards Castiel, looking him up and down warily. "What are you doing?"

"You are cold," Castiel explained. He stepped closer to Dean, who watched Castiel closely but didn’t move as he slung the coat around Dean's bare shoulders.

Dean frowned, but pulled the coat around himself more tightly. He grinned suddenly. "Sure you weren't just embarrassed by all the manly flesh on display?"

"No," Castiel told him. Clothes or skin made very little difference to him.

"Right." Dean rolled his eyes. "Thanks."

And Castiel wasn't sure why he did it, but just before Dean awoke he found himself leaving his coat draped over Dean's sleeping body in the physical world. Moments later, as Dean became fully aware, Castiel departed to the sounds of Dean's surprised laughter.

Days passed, and Castiel saw that less and less of his time was spent searching for his Father, and that every day more and more effort was being spent on running and hiding from his brothers. It was disheartening, and exhausting, and above everything else frustrating.

"I was thinking," Dean said, languishing in bed and covered with a thick, flower-patterned blanket, asleep and ill and dying. "Do you have dreams?"

"I don't sleep." Castiel had told Dean this many times, and wondered if there was some reason for the repeated questioning. He did not imagine Dean, even Dean asleep, to be so forgetful. "So I can’t dream."

"That sucks," Dean sniffed. His hands shook where they lay on top of the bedspread, wrinkled and fragile. Sitting down carefully on the mattress beside Dean, Castiel watched as he coughed, wet and painful-sounding. He considered Dean's grey hair and his withered body and his wry smile.

"You are enjoying this dream?" Castiel asked.

"Hell, yeah," Dean replied. "Never thought I’d get to grow old." Dean frowned, forming deep lines on his forehead. "Except for that one time. But that doesn't count."

"You aren't old in reality, Dean," Castiel pointed out. Dean rolled his eyes and ignored Castiel's argument.

"I still have your coat," he said instead. "If you don't come visit I'll burn it."

Castiel found himself surprised, and amused. "You are trying to bribe me with my clothing?"

"Yeah." Dean grinned and the skin at the corners of his eyes crinkled. "I'll do it. I'll burn it to _ashes_."

There really was no arguing with that so Castiel said, "All right."

Dean called him a pushover and laughed, and Castiel couldn’t help but smile.

"Good as new," Dean announced, handing the trench coat back to Castiel in the waking world.

In thanks for taking care of his coat, Castiel stayed to help Sam research portents that day, and allowed himself to be led to dinner when Dean decreed it.

That night, he went into Dean's dreams content and comfortable, until he saw what Dean was dreaming of.

It had been some time since Dean had dreamt of sex.

When Castiel first fitted himself into Dean's mind he wasn’t sure what to do. He thought to leave, but it had been some days since Castiel had rested and he was so tired. He could keep himself hidden as he had in the past, but now that felt distasteful, like Castiel would be betraying Dean's trust. That only left revealing himself.

It occurred to Castiel then to wonder at why, this time, unlike any other, he felt so conflicted and unsure.

There was a long hallway in Dean's dream. At one end there was a steep, wooden staircase and at the other a door, half-opened that led to what looked like a bedroom.

Dean had a woman Castiel did not recognise pressed against the hallway wall. She was slim, with dark, tightly curled hair falling around her shoulders. Laughing softly into her mouth, Dean ran his hands up along the length of her thighs to her waist, pushing her top up and then off, revealing soft, flawless skin. The woman smiled back at Dean, fumbling with the buckle of his belt and then the buttons of his jeans.

Castiel had learned much about discretion in his time on Earth, from Sam at least, so he placed himself at the very bottom of the staircase leading up to the hallway. He made his way slowly up the steps, placing his weight heavily, carefully, so that the stairs creaked as much as possible.

He heard Dean laugh and say, "I bet that's Cas." Then, a second later he called, "Cas! I know you're there. You can stop hiding!"

Castiel was _not_ hiding.

He took the last steps quickly to find Dean standing beside the stranger, watching him. His shirt lay abandoned on the polished floor halfway between Dean and Castiel. The woman had her hands on Dean's bare shoulders, massaging at the muscles in a way that Castiel had seen Dean enjoyed.

"I was being discreet," Castiel said.

Dean huffed a laugh. "Not very discreet, Cas." Behind Dean, the woman slid her hands around Dean's waist, pressing her lips to the back of his neck. Dean squirmed.

"I apologise for... interrupting." Perhaps, Castiel considered, it would have been easier to leave after all. Dean didn't look embarrassed exactly, but he pushed the woman's hands gently away and took a step towards Castiel.

"It's cool," he shrugged.

"I can return another night," Castiel suggested, but Dean shook his head.

"No, man. I'm not dick enough to throw you out if you need to rest or whatever."

"I will be fine," Castiel insisted, though he wasn't sure why exactly he was pressing this argument. It was, Castiel decided, as though he wanted to be sure Dean wanted him there.

"We haven't seen you in days so just shut up and stay." Dean stalked close and took Castiel by the arm, leading him away from the staircase and towards the open door at the end of the hall. The woman had disappeared, but Dean was still not wearing his shirt.

Castiel stayed, sitting on a bed covered with white, pristine sheets, in a sunny room overlooking a quiet, tree-lined street that only existed in Dean's imagination.

It was a restful night, and Castiel was sad to leave.

He was so full of doubt, these days. But he still had faith in his mission, and so he continued on with his search.

With every day that passed Castiel knew he was slowing and growing weaker. He became tired from doing things that once had been as simple as existing. He ached, sometimes, joints and muscles that were not his burned, craving rest. Every time he flew Castiel was sure this time his wings would snap they felt so fragile. He would fall to the Earth and his brothers would destroy him and Dean and Sam would never even know it.

Castiel came to land somewhere he didn't recognise, and the not knowing made Castiel feel disoriented and perhaps a little afraid. If he couldn't tell where he was, how would he find the Winchesters again?

It was dusk in the desert he'd come to, and Castiel could feel the sand like a thousand pins against his exposed skin. The heat was not comfortable, wasn't a novelty, but a weight, confining in the way his clothes hung from him.

Castiel walked, his feet slipping in the sand, and searched. His feet became sore in his rigid shoes, his eyes stinging from the glare of the sun.

Castiel found himself contemplating maps and, if he could find another being in the bleak wilderness, asking for directions. It was then Castiel realised that it would be pointless, because he had no destination. Suddenly, in that empty place, it seemed important to speak to Dean.

Dean didn't answer his phone, so Castiel supposed they were hunting or asleep. It was not unusual for Dean not to pick up, so Castiel left a short message requesting them to call him back. He turned his mind instead to discerning any divine presence, and was not surprised when there was none. He turned towards the afternoon sun and watched its path across the sky until its light was fading from the world.

It had been a while, Castiel thought, since he had stopped to think. It was, he thought, better that way. He had no time, usually, to think of what had he'd once been, or what he was doing, or how he had very little left other than a life of running from his own brothers. He did not want to fight them, and he certainly didn't want to kill them, but there was still the apocalypse to consider, and Castiel did not want all he had lost and all he had given and all he had done to be for nothing.

He should move on, he knew. But the sun was almost gone, the sky fallen to blue and black, and with it the temperature turned to something more comfortable. Castiel didn't want to leave. He wanted to stay, in the quiet and the peace, away from humans and angels and demons and just be, for a while at least.

As the last of the light disappeared, his phone rang.

"What's up?" Dean asked.

"I would like to rest with you, tonight," Castiel replied.

He heard Dean laugh, sounding tinny and far away over the telephone line. "Cas, you wanna make that sound less gay next time?"

"I have no idea what you mean."

Sometimes, it made Castiel feel frustrated, tired, whenever the brothers laughed at something he said, or referred to something he didn't recognise.

Dean must have heard something of his exasperation in his voice because he said, "It's nothing, man. Motel 8, Coatesville..."

That was still all Castiel needed, he was relieved to find, so he cut Dean off with a, "Thank you," before closing his phone.

Taking one last deep breath of the still-warm desert air, Castiel thought to come back to that place again.

He spread his wings, concentrated on his destination, and it was only then, just as it was almost much too late that he felt them; the presence of other angels bearing down on him. With as much speed as he could muster, with all his strength, Castiel ran, changing direction, changing direction again, and hurtling recklessly and randomly over and under and upon the Earth.

The angels followed, two falling away only to reappear a split-second later in his path. Three fell away, appeared in his path and to the north and Castiel realised then that they were _herding_ him.

Castiel tried to dive low, his wings bent to breaking point from the strain and the speed of the fall. It hurt but Castiel pushed on, changing direction at random and evading his brothers' attempts to forestall him and direct him. There were many of them, though, maybe seven or eight, Castiel estimated, and they were strong from Heaven and not worn down as he was. They fought with the conviction that Castiel was a traitor, blasphemous; an abomination. Castiel could not bring himself to fault them.

They drove him to Earth three times, and each time they were waiting for him with swords drawn. Castiel had no time to defend himself so he did the best he could to avoid the sharp knives, to run faster. They caught his arm, the backs of his legs, and his shoulders, and the cuts bled heavily and stung but Castiel let them. He knew they were going for his wings, hoping to cripple him, so it was better the human flesh than that.

The fourth time they drove Castiel to land there was fire.

He smelled it with his human senses before he could even see it, masked by wards, and if Castiel had had the time he would have laughed that something so very simple as smell could save him from angels. They were trying to trap him.

It took everything he had left to avoid the circle, veering dangerously away from the fire at the last minute as he came to a stop. Without the warning, he would have landed almost in the very centre of the ring of oil, but instead he landed just to its left. The oil erupted in flame and heat and Castiel knew instantly he hadn't gone far enough because he felt the fire burning his wing. He pulled away abruptly and saw that the flames were reaching out to him, licking at his human arm and his side and he could smell burning feathers and flesh.

At first, he couldn't feel anything. It was like all his nerve endings had been burned away, and all he felt was cold fear and a sickness in his stomach. Pain crept up on him like poison, burning at his veins and making him feel light-headed, disoriented. Castiel felt himself crying out in his true voice, for the first time in a very long time, and his own human ears ached with the sound of it. The pain turned to agony, spread quickly across his skin and his grace, and it was so hard to think. But he could see his brothers approaching and he had to get away from the flames before they had the chance to overwhelm him completely, so Castiel shoved everything else aside but the thought to fly.

His brothers followed; Castiel could feel their anger and their blades at his back. It was clear they hadn't expected him to escape their trap, their pursuit instead unorganised and reactive. Even so, Castiel had little hope of out-running them. He was worn and his joints ached and his side burned like it was still alight with the holy fire. Castiel had been on the run from angels for some time, though, and had conceived of a day when he would be so weakened that his brothers could easily catch him. He had hoped it would never come to this, but it was the only possible escape Castiel had left, so he sped up, gaining altitude, before diving suddenly in what was more or less a controlled fall. He didn't stop when he hit the cold surface of the Atlantic, kept going as the water grew dark and heavy. Castiel passed the upper seabed, pushing further and deeper into the deepest trench he had been able to find. Some time ago he'd warded its edges and its caves and its sands and he could feel their presence now, shifting but strong.

It took a long time to reach the bottom.


	2. Chapter 2

Water and darkness were not the favourite things of angels and Castiel knew the others would have hesitated before plunging after him. As he came to the very lowest seabed, moved across it towards the hiding places he had prepared, he couldn't sense them or see them. There was hope yet that the hesitation had bought Castiel time. Not even angels could search an entire ocean, and their instincts would tell them Castiel would not stay under the water for long. But Castiel had been going against his instincts for months now, and he would stay. Even as he felt the salt water seep into his clothes and the burns and the cuts sting on his human skin. Even as his lungs strained for oxygen and he shivered from the cold. Even as the weight of water crushed his body, Castiel did not leave, forcing himself to ignore the discomfort, to remember he was an angel and this would not kill him. He didn't need air and pressure was of no concern to him. Of course it would be, Castiel thought wryly, that by bringing out his angelic nature he had cursed himself to loathe and strain against the need to stay in the deep, cold water more than he ever would as a human.

Castiel thought of Dean's dreams, to pass the time and to distract himself, and of their warmth. He remembered Dean dreaming he was a child playing with toy cars, and he thought of Dean dreaming of mountains and cities, of bars and trains and characters he had seen on the television. Castiel wondered if his phone would still work, after the water and the weight, and he wondered if he'd be able to find the Winchesters again or if they'd moved on. Perhaps it wasn't even a good idea to go to them, Castiel considered, in case he gave the brothers away.

Castiel waited a long time.

Or, at least, it seemed like a long time. In this place, so cut off from everything, Castiel couldn't really tell how much time had passed while he'd sat there, curled in on himself in the darkness with his human flesh pressed against rock and sand. It was very quiet, he realised, and could not decide if he was glad for it or not.

As the minutes, or hours, or days, or whatever, passed it became increasingly difficult for Castiel to ignore the tears and the burns on his flesh. His true form strained for light, and warmth, and to be _out, out, out_ of the water, his wings heavy, bearing him down. Castiel waited and waited beyond what he could endure, then waited some more, feeling his human body die around him as it bled and as it drowned and as it collapsed in on itself. Castiel waited until he knew that if he stayed still for any longer he would never get up again.

And moving, when he finally, _finally_ could take no more, was painfully difficult and laboriously slow. Against all his instincts to go straight up, get out as quickly as possible, Castiel had enough sense left in him to be more cautious. He travelled slowly, moving across the seabed before beginning to ascend. With every foot he climbed Castiel felt lighter, warmer. He was unsure where he was, and longed to just take himself away to the motel room Dean had spoken of, or to Bobby's, or _anywhere_ other than under that ocean, but Castiel knew the longer he stayed in the water, the safer it was for them all.

It was with the most immense sense of relief that Castiel broke the water's surface some time later, far out at sea still but nowhere near where he had descended.

It was warm, and the sea had become blue-green and shallow, and Castiel drew himself up onto the shores of an island that was little more than a beachhead surrounded by ocean. Water still lapped around him, and after so much darkness and cold the feel of the sun against his skin was glorious. Castiel took a moment to revel in it before his human lungs decided they could take no more and demanded air, forcing Castiel to roll onto his side, coughing up a disturbing amount of water and taking gasping breaths.

He lay there for some time just breathing, completely spent, too exhausted to even pull his head back and away from the tide lapping at his chin. There was grit and salt and sand in his eyes that stung, and the hot, deep pain of the burns along his side throbbed dully. He tried not to think about the damage to his wings.

The quiet here was different. Castiel could hear the sound of the wind and the waves and it was so much better than the oppressive silence of the ocean floor. He was listening, trying to gather the strength to move, or at least, to think of what he might do next, when the ringing of his cell phone cut suddenly through the peacefulness, startling Castiel. He must be very weakened, Castiel thought, to jump at nothing more than an unexpected sound.

The phone didn't stop ringing, and for a time Castiel let it, wondering at the miracle of its survival.

It was also, Castiel decided, very irritating, and when it did not seem as though the ringing would _ever_ stop, Castiel fumbled for the thing in his pocket, not bothering to sit up or look at what he was doing. He found the phone easily enough, bone-dry despite his sopping wet coat, and brought it to his ear, pressing the receive button. Wearily, he answered, "Yes?"

And really, Castiel wished he hadn't picked up when Dean began shouting at him, "The fuck, Cas? Where the hell did you get to? You were supposed to meet us days ago."

"I was," Castiel agreed. There was silence for several seconds before Dean began speaking again. He sounded angry.

"And? You gonna explain?"

"I am on a beach," Castiel replied, not really having the strength or the desire to elaborate any further.

"You're-" And Dean still sounded furious. "The hell are you doing on a beach? We were starting to think you were dead!" Dean was very loud.

"I will join you when I'm able," Castiel tried, hoping that Dean might leave him alone. There was an unpleasant prickling sensation on his skin that was neither sand nor water, and Castiel felt his eyes closing, heavy. He was going to sleep, he realised. Castiel wondered if he would dream.

"Cas?" Dean was saying. "Cas! Answer me dammit!"

He could not remember Dean asking him anything, but Castiel said, "I am here, Dean."

"I can barely hear you, Cas. Tell me what's going on. Can you get to us? We're in Minford, at the Jackson Motor Inn."

Castiel grimaced at the thought of flying, his wings feeling burned and heavy and itching with salt water.

"I don't think I can," Castiel replied, sadly. He would have liked, Castiel thought, to go to Sam and Dean.

"Okay, Cas," Dean said, his voice more concerned than angry now. The realisation made Castiel wonder how bad he sounded to elicit such kindness. "We can come and get you," Dean went on. "Where are you?"

That made Castiel's breath catch in a laugh. "I'm somewhere in the middle of the Atlantic Ocean, Dean."

There was another long pause, and Castiel realised his arm was beginning to grow tired from holding the phone to his ear. Then Dean said, "Shit. Cas, shit. You still have some angel juice, right?"

"I do," Castiel replied.

"Good. Crap. That's good." Dean sounded relieved. "But Cas, you're gonna have to come to us so we can help you. You can do that, right?"

Castiel considered. He was helpless. His presence would put Dean and Sam in danger, but if he remained on the beach it would be a long time before he'd be strong enough to be of any use at all. Even so, the brothers had more important things to do than look after him.

Dean began speaking again, irritably, "Cas, fucking answer me. You can rest up here, or in my head, or whatever. I don't care. But you need to get your angel ass here _right the fuck now_."

"You are bossy," Castiel complained. He felt strange, lethargic.

"Yeah, Cas. I am. And you're gonna do what I say. You're going to get up and you're going to fly here, or teleport here, or whatever the hell it is you do. And you're gonna do it now. You hear me, Cas?"

"Yes," Cas answered. "I can hear you."

He considered for a moment just hanging up and staying where he was, but Castiel was still aware enough to know that something was very wrong. His thoughts were confused, erratic and his human body was beginning to feel numb. He would be of no use to anyone if he died here. Castiel was also certain that Dean would keep calling him if he ended the phone call. It would hurt, but it would be no worse than what he'd endured before.

"I will come to you," Castiel decided, and closed the telephone before Dean could yell at him anymore.

It turned out to be a momentous effort just to sit, pushing himself upright on shaking human hands that slid away in the wet, shifting sand. He felt nauseous, light-headed, and he was breathing heavily, like he actually needed the oxygen. It was not a good start.

Castiel pushed away the desire to give up, to lie back down and sleep, focusing instead on bringing his weighted, aching wings out and up.

Around him, the ocean was a beautiful blue, stretching unbroken towards the horizon, patterned with light where the sun refracted off the surface. It was not, Castiel thought, a terrible place to die.

His phone rang again, and Castiel had the very strong feeling that Dean would not let him give up, or rest, until he had found his way to the him.

Castiel sighed, but didn't answer his phone, instead gathering up the pieces of his strength and his will. He concentrated on the location Dean had given him, careful to be sure he could not sense any of his brothers along the route he would need to take. But there was nothing and Castiel was thankful.

Drawing up his wings, Castiel tensed, and then he flew, stretching away from the ocean, towards land and buildings and people.

Even expecting the journey to be painful, Castiel had never before had such difficulty transporting himself; his wings bowed with the strain and he wanted nothing more than to stop but he could still hear his absurd cell phone ringing in his pocket. Castiel kept going, and kept going, and his movements had never felt so _slow_ before, until Castiel finally came to the Winchesters' room. He landed heavily, stumbling as his feet met the carpet.

It was a very great relief for it to be over. Except then, Dean was right in front of Castiel grabbing his arms tightly, his fingers pressing against the burns and cuts and Castiel thought he must have cried out because Dean pulled away suddenly, swearing, "Shit," and "Jesus, Cas," and "You're fucking _freezing_."

From somewhere close by Castiel heard Sam exclaim, "Holy crap!"

There was a lot of movement, and speech that Castiel couldn't be bothered to listen to. Hands held on to his arms again, this time their touch was light and careful but Castiel still hissed at the pain and tried to pull away.

"I know this hurts like a bitch, but it'll only be for a minute," Dean told him.

Dean's idea of a minute, Castiel thought blearily as he was manhandled down onto a bed, left much to be desired.

They peeled off his trench coat, and Castiel focused on remaining upright and silent. Pulling off one the ruined arms, Sam sucked in a breath, saying, "Dean, these look like really serious burns."

"Holy fire," Castiel told him. There was a long pause as the brothers looked at each other. Castiel closed his eyes.

"The hell happened, Cas?" Dean asked. Castiel felt Dean lift his arm, more careful now in taking off his suit jacket. "You smell _really_ bad."

"Dean," Sam chided. Sam was working on removing Castiel's shoes and socks, and Dean was still working off the jacket and it was only then that Castiel realised he was soaking wet still. He could feel the half-dried salt pulling at the dry skin of his cheeks. The realisation made Castiel think of crushing water in the darkest depths of the ocean. Castiel shivered.

"I was hiding," Castiel tried to explain, to distract himself from the discomfort. Castiel did what he could to help Dean remove his, shirt but he was starting to shake, his teeth chattering, and it was the strangest sensation. The shirt clung and hurt where Dean pulled the material away from the burns and the cuts and Castiel could not help but flinch away. He wondered if he was being more of a hindrance than a help. Castiel was finding it difficult to concentrate.

Dean asked, "From angels?"

Scratchy material was wrapped around Castiel's shoulders and his legs and he could feel hands rubbing at his back and his chest. It was unpleasant, and Castiel wished they would stop, tried to push them away.

"Sorry, man," Dean said. "You're not healing and you're almost as blue as that tie of yours right now. We gotta warm you up."

"The ocean is very cold." Castiel nodded blearily.

"Right," Castiel heard Dean say, but it sounded distant and Castiel couldn't understand why he wasn't concerned at all that the world had turned a dim sort of grey, indistinct, calm.

The next thing Castiel knew he couldn't see. He became aware of warmth and some small movement. There was discomfort all over his human body, and a searing ache across his grace, and then Castiel remembered where he had been and what he had done. He remembered how he had come to this and he realised he’d been unconscious. The feeling reminded Castiel of the long, slow journey out of the ocean in the way his limbs ached and he felt trapped and it was difficult to breathe. It became gradually easier.

His eyes, he realised, were closed.

Opening them was an effort the kind of which he had never known before, and for a second Castiel wondered if he were finally human; if the others had bled all that was angel out of him. If the pain of his wings were now just phantoms of lost limbs.

But no. He concentrated, and he could hear the movement of creation, and he could feel the touch of atoms against his being, and he could _see_, not with his mortal eyes, but with his own eyes.

And Castiel could see that he was lying down on a motel bed between Sam and Dean Winchester, and he was wrapped in very itchy, yellow blankets. The pain he had felt, before, had receded and Castiel was very relieved. It had left behind an aching in his limbs and a gritty, creeping feeling across his skin but that, at least, was bearable.

"You awake?" Dean was directly in front of Castiel, his face close. His hands, Castiel realised, were rubbing rhythmically up and down his arms.

"I am," Castiel replied. His throat felt dry, which was strange, Castiel thought, after the way it had filled with water not long ago. Or at least, Castiel assumed it hadn’t been long ago. He had become unclear about the passage of time; how to define it or feel it. It had been irrelevant, once, but now the Winchesters gave him specific hours to meet, and called him incessantly if he did not contact them within some set amount of time Castiel had as yet failed to quantify.

The room was filled with a deep orange light that Castiel suspected was more a result of the colour of the curtains than of the sun. He felt that it was morning, but he couldn't remember what time of day it had been when he'd come to the Winchesters.

"How long have I been... asleep?" he asked.

"Not so much asleep." Dean held Castiel's shoulders for a long moment, looking into Castiel's eyes as though he was looking for something. Castiel met his gaze, but did not have the energy to try and discern what Dean was thinking.

Dean smiled suddenly, squeezing Castiel's arm once before sitting himself up. Carefully, Dean pulled the covers down and lifted up Castiel's left arm, inspecting it.

"You're healing," he said, nodding and sounding satisfied, then looked down at where Castiel was still lying. "How you doin' down there?"

"I am..." Castiel considered. There was still discomfort, but it was incomparable to the pain of before. He felt his human body knitting itself back together, and the wounds on his true form slowly closing over. The ache and burn on his wings had lessened considerably, but Castiel didn't dare look at them yet. He certainly couldn't fly, nor even walk very far he suspected. His being felt heavy, lethargic. His eyes did not want to stay open. "Tired," he decided upon.

Dean nodded. "You need anything?"

"Just rest." Castiel's eyes closed, and this time he knew he would sleep.

Castiel dreamed.

He was in Heaven, freed from human flesh and pain and limitations. He barely recognised himself like this, and for the first time Castiel realised just how accustomed he had become to physicality. His own being felt strange to him.

Heaven, too, was not as he remembered it. There was no warmth or sound, no light or purpose. There was only the endless expanse of infinity leading to nothing and coming from nowhere. Castiel was unsure if this was how Heaven had always been, and his perceptions were so changed that his home had become something foreign and unknown, or if it was just this way in his dream. There was none of the life and tactile complexity that Castiel found in Dean's dreamscapes, but there was no need for such corporeality in Heaven, for such solidity.

Castiel found himself wishing for Earth, and all its imperfections. He wished for cool air, and for rain on his skin, and for the texture of pages of a book. He longed to hear the noise of engines, of human chatter. Castiel wanted his phone, he wanted to feel the weight of his trench coat across his shoulders and the relief when he sat down after standing for a long time.

Real or not, Castiel was alone in this place.

He wanted Dean to shout at him, and Sam to talk to him, and Bobby to growl in his direction. He even missed Dean's car, slow and restrictive as it was, sitting in the backseat as Dean and Sam argued, or as Dean played his loud, sometimes grating music.

The Heaven in Castiel's mind was a dead place, filled with absolutely nothing, and Castiel wondered if somewhere along the line since he'd been cut off he had developed a subconscious. If he had, it certainly wasn't subtle.

Castiel was not a physical creature, but apparently he liked the idea of becoming one.

The thought stayed with Castiel upon waking, alone now on the bed, Sam and Dean whispering furiously to each other somewhere close by.

Opening his eyes was much less difficult this time, pleasant even. It was lighter in the room, the curtains half opened. Castiel guessed it was sometime late in the afternoon and he felt rested, his limbs spread comfortably across the mattress. The bed was warm, and Castiel revelled in the texture of the sheets, and the scratchy blankets, noting the springs prodding into his back and the vaguely distasteful smell of mould, glad for all of it after the sterility of his dreams.

Dean must have sensed his waking because he was standing at the side of the bed within moments, leaning over him. He looked concerned, but he was smiling.

"Hey, Cas," Dean said. "You okay?"

"I am," Castiel replied. Sam sat down on the mattress beside him then, holding out a glass of water.

"I don't know if you need it, but, you know..." He shrugged. "Maybe it'll help?"

With Dean's help, Castiel sat up. He felt light-headed for a few seconds before the sensation passed. It was... interesting. One of Dean's hands remained against Castiel's back, warm and steady, fingers pressed firmly against Castiel's spine.

Castiel reached out for the glass. "Thank you, Sam," he said.

The glass was heavier than he had expected, his fingers cooling and slipping against the wet glass. When Castiel took a drink, the water felt refreshing, and Castiel had not realised how thirsty he was until there was liquid, and the slightly bitter taste against his tongue. He would like to have drunk more, but Sam pulled the glass away.

"You shouldn't drink so fast," he advised. Castiel didn’t see why not, but the way the water made his stomach feel cold was distracting.

Dean pushed Castiel back down, and Castiel let him, tired from sitting up even though it couldn't have been for more than a few minutes. He was not as healed as he would have liked.

"You up for telling us what happened now?" Dean asked, pulling the blankets up around Castiel's shoulders.

"The others sought to trap me. I was able to avoid them," Castiel told him simply. It would serve no purpose to go into the details.

"Trap you," Dean repeated. He sat on the bed beside Castiel, and he felt the way the mattress shifted and stretched beneath him. "With that holy oil crap."

"Does it matter?" Castiel said wearily.

"Yeah." Dean reached out a hand and laid it beside Castiel's arm. "I think it does. Parts of you were burned to a crisp, Cas. You were carved up and half-frozen to death. How did they find you?"

"I stayed in one place for too long, perhaps." Castiel frowned, remembering. "They must have been waiting. They came after me as soon as you told me your location."

Castiel looked from Dean to Sam and realised he had to leave. _Now_.

"I’m endangering you," Castiel told them, and began struggling to sit up again. He couldn’t fly, but he could perhaps walk in order to find some other means of transport.

"You're not going anywhere." Dean had a hold of Castiel's shoulders again and was trying to push him down. Castiel's skin stung from the pressure and he tried pushing himself away, hissing. "Sorry, Cas. Sorry," Dean said, holding up his hands, palms facing towards Castiel but still close. "But there is no way we're letting you leave. We can take care of ourselves."

Which was the most ridiculous thing Castiel had ever heard.

"No, you can't. Not against angels."

"Fuck them," Dean spat in reply.

Castiel shook his head at Dean's stubbornness. "I should not have come here. I wasn't thinking. I don't have the strength to properly hide myself here."

"Then tell us how to," Sam suggested.

"I'm not sure there is a way," Castiel replied. He would have liked nothing more than to stay with the Winchesters, to rest for just a little while. Castiel would even take the strange emptiness of his dreams and the confusing, alien sensation of waking up if he could just recover in peace, but he was not so selfish as to endanger Sam and Dean for his own health.

"You've been hiding out in my brain," Dean said, tapping the side of his head. "Can't you do that now?"

It wasn’t something Castiel had considered. After everything that had happened, and how utterly new everything was -sleep, pain, fear and exhaustion- Castiel wasn’t even sure he would be able to reside in Dean's dreams anymore. There was no way he could guess at just how human he had become. In all his life, he had never heard of anything happening to an angel as it had to him, which scared Castiel more than he cared to consider.

But, perhaps, resting in Dean’s dreams would not endanger the Winchesters, if he could still do it. It was worth the attempt.

"It is possible," he told Dean. If he could gather enough of the strength of his worn grace. "But you must be asleep. I can't remain there while you're awake."

Dean frowned, annoyed. It was late in the day but Castiel knew Dean well enough to know he didn't require much sleep, and would not sleep for some time yet. He looked to Sam.

"Sleeping pills?" Dean queried.

Sam nodded. "We have some. They'll knock you out for at least a couple of hours."

"Can you get us out of here, when I'm out?"

Sam snorted. "I've dragged your heavy ass around enough times, Dean. Yeah, I can."

"You won't be able to wake up," Castiel objected.

"Given the right incentive, I will." Dean lifted his chin towards Sam, which he seemed to take as some form of instruction. Sam nodded in agreement and stood up, moving towards their bags. To Castiel Dean said, "Will a couple hours be enough?"

It wasn't really, but Castiel would take what he could get, so he said, "Yes," and, "Thank you."

Sam came back over to the bed, handing Dean two pills.

"You don't have to do this," Castiel felt he should say. It was frustrating, to be so weakened and so reliant on others. It was something that Castiel was not at all accustomed to, but Sam just shrugged.

"It's cool," he said.

Dean gave Castiel an appraising look. "I hate to tell you this, man, but you're really not up to looking after yourself right now."

Castiel would have been angry at the insinuation that he couldn't fend for himself -_should_ have been angry- but if he was honest with himself it was, at that moment, very like the truth. As much as he might like to imagine he could leave the brothers of his own accord, Castiel was fairly certain his human legs, let alone his wings, wouldn't be able to carry him anywhere at all.

"Don't worry about it," Sam said. "It's good we get to help you. And Dean needs to get more sleep anyway. He's been really cranky lately."

"I have not," Dean argued.

"He sleeps better with you hanging out in his brain," Sam assured Castiel.

"I do fucking _not_."

"We'll all be better off for this," Sam went on, ignoring Dean completely.  
  
Castiel did not know if it was the truth, or if Sam was teasing his brother, but he was aware from his time in Dean's dreams that Dean really didn't get enough sleep, so Castiel nodded in agreement. There was something strangely pleasing about the way Dean glared at Castiel and shot Sam an annoyed look before taking the pills dry.

"This might take a while," Dean said. He swung his legs up onto the bed beside Castiel and pulled off his shoes.

"I will require some time also," Castiel told him.

Dean pulled off his jacket. "Right," he said. "Sam, pack up our shit. Get moving as soon as Cas... does whatever it is he does." There was a pause as Dean laid himself down on the mattress. "What is it you do, anyway? How do you fit Jimmy's body in my head?"

"It doesn't work like that," Castiel said. There was really no way to explain it that would be a satisfactory answer to Dean, so he said nothing more.

"Of course it isn't," Dean scoffed. He yawned and turned his head on the pillow to face Castiel. "Explain it to me. Or tell me a really boring story. I know you angels have lots of them. Help me fall asleep."

Over the other side of the room Castiel heard Sam laugh softly as he gathered up their things.

"You can be very offensive sometimes," Castiel told Dean.

"And you can be an ass sometimes so I guess we're even," Dean retorted. "Now do whatever you need to do so we can get this over with."

"You must be asleep first," Castiel pointed out.

"I know that," Dean said, closing his eyes.

"Arguing with me won't help you sleep," Castiel told him.

Dean half-smiled and Castiel thought the relaxed, open expression on Dean's face looked good on him. "Then shut up," he said.

Castiel did as he was asked and watched as Dean's breathing became an even, slow rhythm, and his limbs loosened.

The quiet and the warmth of Dean lying beside him and the not uncomfortable heavy feel of blankets over him and the lumpy pillow under his head made Castiel sleepy and he had to blink his eyes to keep them open. Castiel concentrated on the sounds of Sam moving around the room, and on the pain in his wings to keep himself awake. What was left of his strength seemed more distant than ever, but he gathered the threads of his grace, submerged all that had become human in him to the angelic, and let go of the mortal world.

It was, as it had been since Castiel had raised Dean up from Hell, an easy path into Dean's mind. Once, Castiel had remade all that was Dean's physical being and so it had become as familiar to Castiel as his own memories. Dean welcomed him too, and it was almost effortless to slide himself into Dean's dreams. Castiel rested there, in the spaces between, and watched as he had done so many times before as Dean's sleeping consciousness created new worlds.

There was a tidy room with a low coffee table and a polished wooden floor and wall to ceiling windows. Books sat neatly on shelves beside vases and photographs and Castiel recognised the room as a half-memory of the house Dean had lived in as a young child. Castiel found himself sitting on a large, over-stuffed couch.

"I always liked that couch." Dean spoke from somewhere behind Castiel. "I'd forgotten about it."

"It is... quite comfortable," Castiel decided. It was a good place to rest, and Castiel wondered if Dean had moulded his own dreams to this memory of past comfort for that very reason. Dean came around the side of the couch holding a steaming mug that smelled to Castiel like coffee.

"I fell asleep on it all the time," Dean said, a little wistfully, but he didn't look sad. He held out the mug to Castiel. "Drink it. It'll make you feel better."

"It is imaginary," Castiel reminded Dean, but took the mug anyway. It was too hot against the palms of his hands and reminded Castiel of the way fire burned his skin and his wings. He leaned forward and put the mug down on the table carefully.

Dean sat down beside him and Castiel felt the cushions shifting beneath him. "Don't like the coffee, huh?"

"It's hot," Castiel replied. For a moment he had been able to forget the lethargy and the discomfort in his curiosity for this room from Dean's childhood, and in the way he felt comfortable there, with Dean. He could not, he supposed, ignore all that had happened for long. Even resting in Dean's mind, Castiel wouldn’t be able to avoid the damage done to his true form.

"You look like crap," Dean told him, looking Castiel up and down with a frown on his face. "You looked better out there." He waved a hand towards the windows, as though the waking world was just beyond them. "What's up with that?"

Castiel didn't know how much to tell Dean, or what point there was in saying anything at all. There was little Dean could do to help, except in the way he let Castiel rest in his mind and recreated a warm, bright room filled with some of Dean's happiest recollections. Castiel could smell sweet things baking in the kitchen and could hear the ticking of a wall clock and knew that Dean thought of these things as home. Showing Castiel so much of himself, so willingly, was not something Castiel wanted to repay with half-truths or prevarications.

"I was injured," Castiel tried to explain. "You can see that, in this place."

"I could see you'd had the crap beaten out of you outside too," Dean said, looking confused.

"I meant my true self, not my vessel."

Dean's expression turned doubtful. "You still look like an accountant."

"It's how you wish to see me. This is your dream."

"Huh," was all Dean said in reply.

He leaned into the couch and seemed content to sit and stare at nothing at all and Castiel rested beside him, knowing his time was short and soon he would have to leave the quiet reprieve of this place. And he would have to fly. For perhaps the first time in his existence, Castiel didn't want to, knowing how much it was going to rip and tear along deep, clawing burns, but having no choice.

"Cas, you look like someone ate your puppy," Dean said suddenly, and Castiel had not even noticed Dean had been watching him. To be so unaware of his surroundings, to be so preoccupied that he hadn’t noticed such a thing, made Castiel realise even more just how strange and _human_ he had become.

But not so human as to understand Dean, it seemed. "I don't have a puppy," Castiel told Dean, certain Dean had meant something else entirely but having no idea what.

Dean shook his head, but he was smiling slightly. "You don't look too happy about something," he clarified.

"There is little time before I have to leave," Castiel admitted. The fabric of the couch under his hands was soft, the light streaming in through the windows warm on his face, and Dean's company and patience and kindness was a welcome change from what his life had become; running, incessantly, without purpose or direction. "I don't wish to leave."

"I'll try and sleep more." Dean laid a hand on Castiel's shoulder, and looked as though he meant it.

"You could use more rest anyway," Castiel commented, half in truth and half because he thought it would amuse Dean.

Castiel was pleased when Dean smiled.

They sat in silence on the couch in Dean's dream, ignoring the shadows as they moved across the room.

Castiel clung to Dean's mind for every last second that he could. He could hear Dean telling him to stay and that they'd keep him safe and not to be an ass, but it was a poor idea -Castiel had already stayed too long- and whether the Winchesters wanted to admit it or not they could not defend him against other angels. So as Dean awoke, Castiel took flight and ignored the way the flesh of his wings pulled and split, and buried himself deep within the Earth, coming to rest in a vast cavern that had never known the presence of humanity, let alone an angel.

It was everything that Dean's dream wasn't; cold, silent and dark and it reminded Castiel too much of the bottom of the ocean. It was the safest place he could think of though -aside from the seabed- made up of all the things angels shied away from. Castiel hated it, but he would stay and he would hope and he would count the hours as a human would until he could leave and call Dean.

Closing his eyes and wrapping his coat around himself, Castiel tried to ignore the icy, damp stone under his back. He tried to imagine himself elsewhere. He wondered if he could sleep again, dream of Dean or Sam or mountains and open spaces and warmth, but the minutes and the hours passed by and Castiel remained awake. Instead, he tried to remember the soft, smooth feel of bed sheets and the scratchiness and musty smell of blankets. He imagined the weight of Dean's hand on his shoulder and the warmth brought by the touch of a human. He did not think of fire and he did not think of the burning incandescence of an angel's true form.

When more than a day had passed and it was late at night in the parts of the world where Dean and Sam tended to travel, Castiel pooled his strength together again, relieved that there was more to draw on this time, and took himself to the surface. Veiling himself carefully in all the spells and diversions he could think of, Castiel transported himself to the desert where it was warm and it was dry and from there he called Dean.

Dean's first words on answering his cell were, "You bastard," followed by, "You fucking asshole," and then, "You dick _angel_," which really, Castiel had not expected at all.

Castiel did not get a chance to reply before Dean went on, "You get here right the fuck now. I am sick of your shit. Jesus. You're worse than a five year old. You're worse than fucking _Sam_. I told you to stay and you fuck right off to Christ knows where and we start to think you're dead all over again. After I drugged myself up and let Sam drive my fucking car too. I don't do that shit for anyone, Cas. Now where the hell were you?"

Castiel was taken back by the vehemence in Dean's voice, and was not entirely sure how he had annoyed Dean quite so much.

"I was hiding, Dean," Castiel tried to explain.

"Yeah?" Dean didn't sound appeased. "There's somewhere to hide better than my car? I'm offended. We're at Davenport, Iowa. The Fairfield Inn. You're coming here now."

Dean hung up, leaving Castiel confused and possibly irritated at Dean's mood, but he took himself to the motel anyway. It would, he reasoned, only make Dean more bad tempered if he refused.

Sam greeted him with a warm, "Hi, Cas," and a smile. "Dean's having a tantrum in the bathroom. I'm sure he'll be out once he's done fixing his mascara."

From behind the door Sam was pointing towards, Castiel heard Dean shout, "Shut up, bitch."

He came out of the bathroom frowning and gave Castiel a long look-over before announcing. "You look like shit."

"I am not at my best," Castiel admitted. Dean's attitude was frustrating, but it was not anything out of the ordinary.

"I'm going to sleep." Dean gave Castiel a final glare before lying down on the bed and pulling the covers over himself. Castiel wondered if the sheets were cold, and if the blankets were itchy against Dean's skin. "It would help if you two weren't freaking staring at me."

Sam looked over at Castiel with a raised eyebrow, shrugged, and then sat down on the other bed with his laptop on his knees. There was an old book beside him that felt well used and powerful.

"It's a book of protective spells," Sam told him. He shifted over, patting the space beside him, which Castiel interpreted as an invitation to sit down. The mattress dipped and shifted as he settled on its edge. His legs had been tired, he realised, and he was glad to no longer be standing. "Me and Dean," Sam was saying, "We're trying to find something that'll help you."

"Help me?" Castiel asked and Sam nodded, picking up the old book, angling it towards Castiel. It was written in old German, with finely detailed illustrations in colours that would once have been bright, but were now dull and faded.

"To hide," Sam clarified.

"I have not had time," Castiel acknowledged, "To examine human methods. I only know the angelic ones. I was unsure if they would be of any use."

"We figured you'd probably tried everything you know. I guess you can’t carve Enochian into your own bones."

"No." Castiel looked over the page Sam was holding out to him; 'Minerals to call down Angels', the heading read. "This is not useful."

Sam smiled. "Not so much. But it's a start."

"You don't have to-" Castiel began, but Dean cut in loudly, irritably, with, "Shut the fuck up. Trying to sleep over here."

Sam rolled his eyes, but turned away to his computer screen, dropping the old book gently to rest on the mattress. Castiel watched as Sam moved his fingers over the machine, and wondered if he should learn how to use such things. The phone hadn't been difficult, after all.

The longer Castiel remained, the more he noticed about the room; its dimness, lit by only the bedside lamp beside Sam, and the smell of it, oil and old food and sweat. The night was cool, a contrast to Sam's warmth and the way his clothes kept out the cold air. It was, Castiel realised, the fist time he had ever fully understood the _point_ of clothing.

In the quiet of the room, with just the tapping of Sam's computer and the muted thrum of cars on the highway outside, Dean quickly fell into a deep sleep and with a parting nod to Sam, Castiel hid himself away in Dean's dreams.

There was a snowstorm.

It was blinding and loud and Castiel didn't like the way the snow burned his exposed skin. He couldn't see Dean anywhere, which had never happened before, and for a moment Castiel worried that he had lost all sense of location and direction and had somehow managed to send himself to Siberia or the Himalayas. The sky was too purple though, and the landscape too flat and expansive and empty to be anywhere on Earth.

Castiel cautiously stretched out with his senses, seeking out Dean, except this was Dean's mind and he could feel Dean all around him.

The wind was picking up, making it increasingly difficult for Castiel to stand his ground and he thought, _This is not restful at all,_. He might have returned to the relative comfort of the underground cavern except Castiel didn't like the idea of leaving Dean in this dream. It was filled with a sense of hopelessness and despair that he wouldn't ignore.

Castiel chose a direction at random and pressed forward. His feet sank deep into the thick snow with every step making walking difficult. The snow battered at his face, cold and blinding. It was a lot like the ocean, Castiel thought. The snow seeped uncomfortably into his shoes and into his socks until his feet stung from the cold, and his hands felt like they were being cut by hundreds of tiny sharp knives. It was distracting and painful and Castiel realised his insides, his lungs, hurt with every breath. It was a familiar pain from the crushing pressure of water, and an unpleasant memory.

The light was fading fast and Castiel found it hard to see, his senses limited by Dean's oppressive, unrelenting dream, but he could make out movement, not far away. Castiel increased his pace as best he could towards it.

The movement became an indistinct shape which turned out to be Dean, stumbling towards him, face as white as the snow. Through the heavy falling snow and the dull light, Castiel thought that Dean looked relieved to see him. The way Dean swerved and lurched as he walked was worrying, and he tried to move faster. If he had had the strength he would have reformed this dream long ago.

It took much longer than Castiel would have liked, so much so that he was beginning to think Dean's psyche was actively trying to keep them apart with wind and cold and snow that grew deeper and deeper with every stop. Castiel could see well enough to know that there was determination on Dean's face, and he was almost sure that Dean was calling to him.

Finally, Castiel came within reaching distance of Dean, and as soon as he could he took hold of Dean's arms, even though his fingers stung from the exposure. Dean's teeth were chattering and there was snow in his hair as he croaked out, "Cas."

There was nowhere for them to escape the snowstorm or the howling wind. There was nothing that Castiel could do except draw Dean closer towards him and wrap his arms around Dean's back and hold on, as Dean had warmed Castiel the night before. Dean didn't complain, instead pressing his face into Castiel's neck and all he could think about was the _coldness_ of Dean's skin.

As Dean had done to him before, Castiel rubbed his hands up and down Dean's back and his arms and his neck, and Dean pulled his arms close together so that his forearms were pressed tightly against Castiel's chest. Castiel could feel no heat from Dean's body, but there was warm breath against his neck.

Speaking into Dean's ear so that he might hear over the storm around them, Castiel asked, "Why do you dream this, Dean?"

He felt Dean shiver against him before lifting his head up, glaring. "I don't choose this crap. Who would choose _this_?"

At Dean’s look, Castiel refrained from mentioning that humans did have some control over their dreams, instead drawing him close again. "This is not restful for either of us. I will wake you up."

Dean grasped tightly at the front of Castiel's shirt. "You stay with us," he demanded. "This time you fucking stay with us. If you run off again, Cas, so help me I will _hurt_ you." His voice grated, like it was difficult to speak, but Dean still managed to sound livid.

"You won't." Despite all of Dean's threats and derisiveness, Castiel was sure that Dean didn't mean half of the things he said.

Dean said, "You're an asshole, Cas," and Castiel smiled, the skin of his frozen lips pulling painfully, feeling dry and cracked.

He told Dean, "I will be cautious, and come to you again soon."

In his arms Dean shivered again, so Castiel held him tightly for a moment, waking Dean with a thought. Castiel was thankful that he could at least do that much.

As he left Dean's dreams, Castiel thought he heard Dean say, "You'd better."

It was with a sense of relief that Castiel returned to the world, the memory of cold snow difficult to forget, making him shiver and draw his coat around himself.

He flew to the rainforests in the south on wings that ached dully but felt lighter and less painful when he drew them out. Still, he didn’t dare to look at them.

It would be warm in the ancient southern forests, and there would be life, and Castiel could only hope that he could stay there a while in peace.

Coming to rest on the soft forest floor, Castiel sat back against the trunk of an old, impossibly tall Kapok tree. Around him were the sounds of animals and movement and growth, and Castiel much preferred it to the silence of the sea or the depths of the Earth or the howling winds of Dean's arctic dream. It was green and alive and Castiel no longer had the strength to worry that he could be found again at any moment, and killed or dragged back to Heaven or thrown into Hell. Instead, Castiel focused on resting and healing himself as best he could.

Deciding not to worry didn't mean not being cautious, though, so Castiel drew sigils and whispered prayers to divert the eyes of any of his brothers who might be looking for him.

It wasn't long before Castiel's phone sounded the arrival of a message.

_"What happened last night?"_ Sam asked.

Castiel replied, _"Is something wrong?"_ He had not rested for long, but he was sure he had the strength to go to the Winchesters if they were in some danger.

_"Dean's in the shittiest mood. He's angry about something,"_ Sam sent back quickly.

Castiel considered this. Knowing Dean, he would see his dream the previous night as some sort of failure on his part.

He replied to Sam, _"Tell Dean I have found somewhere safe and warm. I will see you both this evening."_

It would not have been Castiel's first choice to visit the brothers in person so soon, but it seemed as though Dean needed it. He had done so much lately for Castiel that he could not just leave Dean to his habitual self-recrimination and seemingly boundless guilt.

Beneath his hands the ground was soft, yet sharp with the edges of bark and waxy, fallen leaves. There was damp and rough stone and stalks like silk and some prickly ferns that stung Castiel's fingers. Where sun was able to reach him, shaded as he was by the magnificent, sprawling tree canopy, there was heat against his skin and Castiel revelled in it all. He had survived and the Winchesters were in one piece and together, and at that moment there was little else Castiel could hope to wish for.

He had, for a long time, ignored the absence of his Father and his anger and his disappointment. He did not like to think that he had lost much of his purpose in being. He did not like to think how they might defeat Lucifer. But the life in this place, Castiel thought, the beauty and the awe of it made it all worth fighting for. It bolstered his faith that God really was still with them, somewhere.

And then there was Dean and Sam and how they strived beyond all possibility to defeat creatures that were far more powerful and infinitely crueler than they could ever be. How, beyond expectation, they had _won_. It did, Castiel realised, give him hope. He had come to trust them, and he had become very attached to them, and he did not want to see them lose. Castiel did not want to lose _them_.

A little before the sun began to set, Sam sent the message, _"I will hunt you down if you don't get here soon,"_ and it made Castiel smile.  
  
Castiel would like to have stayed and watched the change from day to night, and the shifting colours, and felt the cooler night air, but he had a feeling Dean would soon begin sending him abusive text messages if he didn't go to him immediately.

He called Sam.

"Cas," Sam answered.

"I will come to you now."

"We're at the Crown Inn, Colby. Careful, Cas. Dean's looking smug."

Castiel didn't know what Dean had to be smug about but he said anyway, "I will."

There was the howl of monkeys somewhere behind him and just as Castiel was about to end the call Sam asked, sounding alarmed,

"What’s that noise? Where are you?"

"Brazil," Castiel replied. "I will be with you shortly," and hung up.

It was with relief that when Castiel spread his wings it hardly hurt at all. It was almost easy to fly, as it had been before the ocean and the holy fire and his brothers trying to kill him. Castiel did not like to think about the hatred his own kind now bore for him, and instead focused on Sam and Dean and all that he had gained in knowing them; the care of a family, friendship, the physical world of humanity and Earth, love.

Dean was pacing the motel room when Castiel arrived. He rounded on Castiel immediately, pointing accusingly.

"You're late." Dean approached Castiel, took a firm hold of his arm and led him over to the bed furthest away from the door. Over at the motel's small desk, Sam looked up from his computer and watched Dean manhandling Castiel with an amused half-smile.

"I am not late," Castiel argued. "It’s still evening."

Dean didn't reply, just continued to look annoyed and pushed Castiel down to sit on the mattress. Beneath him, it hardly gave at all under his weight, making a dull thudding noise where the movement caused the wooden headboard to hit against the wall. Castiel found that he did not like the brown colour of the sheets.

This room smelled of chemicals, perhaps cleaners or the concoctions humans mixed to hide odours. Castiel didn't know, but it was unpleasant.

"Take off your coat and shirt," Dean demanded and Castiel heard Sam snort a laugh. It was not, Castiel decided, an attractive sound.

"What for?" Castiel asked.

"To see those burns and where your brothers sliced you up." Dean’s voice sounded venomous when he said ‘brothers’ and Castiel winced. No matter how true it was it still hurt to hear.

Dean put his hands on Castiel's neck, nodding to himself like he was satisfied with something before staring down at Castiel and frowning.

"Off."

"I'm healed," Castiel assured him.

"I want to see for myself. Off."

There were two choices: argue or comply, and as much as Castiel would like to protest that _he was fine_, Dean, he was sure, wouldn’t believe him until he’d seen it for himself. With a heavy sigh, he shook his coat from his arms, and then pulled off the jacket before unbuttoning his shirt. He wouldn't allow Dean to help him because he wasn't a child and, oddly, Castiel was fascinated by the pull of thread through the buttonhole as he undid the buttons, and the smooth brush of cotton over his arms as he pulled off the shirt. For the first time Castiel realised how much he had taken to the textures of the human world. How much he enjoyed _feeling_.

Dean's hands were cold where they pressed suddenly against Castiel's chest and his arm. Castiel let Dean run his hands lightly over where the skin had been most badly burned, along his shoulder blade and down his arm. He felt Dean's fingers against his side, and found he wanted to pull away from that touch, and then Dean followed the lines of dull red and white scars across his forearms that had once been the cuts from an angel's knife and that was tolerable.

"They will take longer to heal," Castiel told him.

Dean was silent for a long moment, scowling Castiel’s arms. He didn't let him go.

"But they’ll heal," Castiel thought it wise to add.

"Do they hurt?" Dean asked without looking up.

"No," Castiel replied truthfully.

Dean looked at him for what felt like a long time, and Castiel wondered at the way he was sure he could feel Dean's gaze on his skin, a tingling sensation like warmth.

"Look," Dean said finally. "You need to stay with us."

Castiel opened his mouth to tell Dean that there was no way, as he would say, in hell that he was going to put them in danger like that, but Dean held up a hand to forestall his arguments.

Dean didn't seem to notice that his thumb was stroking at the skin just below Castiel's bare shoulder.

He should be cold, Castiel realised. The hairs on his skin were standing on end.

"Just hear me out," he insisted. "Not all the time, I mean, but you're kind of..." Dean turned to look at Sam who shrugged and smiled. Dean was frowning when he turned back to Castiel. "You're exposed out there on your own. You shouldn't be."

It was so strange, Castiel thought, how words could affect a physical reaction. There was warmth, a lightness in his chest, his shoulders felt somehow less tense, less burdened. It was relief, and something like joy.

Castiel could feel sadness there too, like a pressure against his lungs and a weight against his eyes.

"I would stay," Castiel told Dean. "If I could."

Dean glanced at Sam again. "Yeah," he said. "You're not hidden. We get that."

Castiel didn't think Dean did.

He didn't understand just how much Heaven could see, how thorough they could be, how unrelenting, tireless, absolute. They had thousands upon thousands of years of tactical experience. They could see the Earth in its entirety. They knew every magic there ever was. It was all Castiel could do to try and keep ahead of them. To think of _new_ things, because they knew all of the old ones. It was all he had; that lack of imagination among angels, and that unwillingness to adapt and to change and to create. That was the way of humanity, and his own kind didn't much care for it.

It had been inevitable that with all that power of Heaven, all of that knowledge, Castiel would eventually make a mistake -weakened as he was- without help and without resources. He knew it was only a matter of time until he made another.

Dean was saying, "So Sam and I have been looking into it. What we can do."

"Dean," Castiel tried.

"No, Cas, listen to me," Dean insisted, cutting Castiel off. "We know you've probably tried everything, I don't know, thought of everything, but it's not like these carvings on our ribs are infallible."

Castiel had to concede the truth of that. There was no spell that couldn't be undone, nor any defence that couldn't be overcome. It was a lesson Castiel had learned many times over in his life. In battle. In other things too, he supposed.

He bowed his head to allow the point and Dean seemed to take it as encouragement, licking his lips.

"Right. So we, me and Sam, were thinking of something like Bobby's panic room, where you could hang out."

It wasn’t that Castiel didn't appreciate the thought, the worry for his safety. There was that warmth again, in his stomach and across his face. But it was just too much risk. A risk that there was no reason to take when it could be avoided.

He would listen to Dean anyway, because that was what Dean wanted, and Dean was stubborn beyond all reason. Castiel knew well enough that he would not stop until he had been heard.

"We were thinking," Dean began after a long pause. He waved a hand towards Sam. "We were thinking of doing something to the Impala. Sigils, salt. I don't know. Whatever you need."

The feeling then was something Castiel didn't recognise. It was like his mind could suddenly think of nothing but Dean's car, and what Dean was willing to do for _him_. It was disbelief, and surprise, unexpected but welcome.

"Your car-" Castiel said, unsure how he meant to continue, because Dean loved the machine to an incomprehensible degree, and Castiel understood something of how much it meant to Dean. It was a home and it was something familiar and reliable and unchangeable in the violence and pain and inconsistency of his life.

"I'm not gonna gut her or anything," Dean cut in, and Castiel wasn't sure who he was trying to assure. "But we found a few things good for hiding-"

At that point Sam interrupted, loudly, with a wide, amused grin, "Just suck it up, Dean, and tell Cas you decorated the car with flowers for him."

Dean swung around towards his brother, pointing a finger at him and saying, "Shut up, Sam," before turning back to Castiel.

"Yarrow," he shrugged. He shot Sam an indignant look. "And she's not _decorated_."

"I have used the flower, yes," Castiel agreed, aware he was smiling. Aware that this was kindness he had never expected, and somehow, that it made him want to _laugh_.

Dean was frowning. "Glad you think this is funny," he groused, but he didn't sound particularly annoyed. Instead he was watching Castiel with curiosity. "When a human tells you he's messed up his car for you," Dean goes on sternly. "You should be honoured."

"No, that's just you Dean," Sam retorted.

Even though Castiel felt somewhat displeased that Dean had had to go to such lengths for him, he couldn’t help but feel something like loved. It was a thing Castiel had not known since being cast out of Heaven, and it was a thing that Castiel had never thought he would experience ever again. To find it here, on Earth, with the Winchester brothers and their car was both a surprise and a joy, and a reminder of why he was here. Why he was fighting. For what he had broken from Heaven.

"I am honoured, Dean," Castiel said sincerely.

Dean unfolded his arms, said, "Good," and then, "So you're staying."

Not a question, but not really an order either because Dean was almost-smiling, and his eyes looked warm. Castiel remembered Dean's dreams, filled with ice and fire and exposure and lust and emptiness, but still Dean let him in. Let Castiel see those parts of his mind that he had not even shown any other. He remembered his own dreams, made of loneliness and a Heaven devoid of everything he had once loved it for. There was nothing Castiel could do, in those unreal places, to stop how cold it made him feel, how much it hurt. But in that motel room, ordinary and insignificant, there was Dean's smile, and Sam's laugh, and the sound of rain against the windows. Sometimes there was Dean's hand on his shoulder or his back.

Dean welcomed Castiel into his dreams, and now Dean welcomed him into his car, and Castiel wondered if perhaps this physical world was a better place to be. He could stay here, he thought, where maybe he was beginning to find his place again. And perhaps it would work. Perhaps he could be safe in Dean’s car, and for once to truly rest. He would be able to feel the leather of the seats and the warmth of the glass and he would hear Dean's music and the brothers talking to each other. It was dangerous, but perhaps everything was now, and Castiel _wanted_ to stay, if only for a little while. It would be rude to refuse.

So Castiel said, "I will stay."

He didn't say for how long, and he didn't tell Dean that he would need to paint parts of his vehicle with blood, but that could wait, because Dean was grinning at him as though he’d won a major victory. Dean walked over to Castiel and patted him on the shoulder.  
  
"Awesome," Dean said, and Castiel thought, yes, perhaps it could be.

**.End.**


End file.
